


It was not Death (for I stood up)

by yanak324



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Acceptance, Angst and Romance, F/M, Falling In Love, POV Gendry, Reconciling the past, Sexual Content, Spoilers for 8.02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 16:16:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18575053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yanak324/pseuds/yanak324
Summary: In another version of their story, he never would have seen her again, let along made love to her. But he has, and he did, and he’s going to hold onto it for as long as he bloody can.In the hours before the Great Battle, Gendry thinks about what is important. Spoilers for Season 8: Episode 2 - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms.





	It was not Death (for I stood up)

**Author's Note:**

> I really did not think we were going to get what we got in episode 2 but I'm glad we did, and apparently so is my muse. I've been waiting to do something from Gendry's POV and this one just made sense. Titles continue to be stolen from Emily Dickinson, and the characters belong to George R.R. Martin. Enjoy :)

xxx 

Of course, she would be good at this.

There are a few fumbles in the beginning as he readies her for his cock and then guides her onto it, but now that they’ve got a rhythm going...

_Seven hells_

Gendry shouldn’t be so surprised. As temperamental as Arya was when he knew her, she was always a good student. 

The practiced ease with which she glides on his cock, filling herself to the brim with him, pressing herself so hungrily against him, it makes him see stars. 

It’s never felt like this any of the other times. He hasn’t lain with a woman in so long, but he knows it’s more than that.

His head seems to be catching up with his body and he realizes it’s _Arya_ atop him, it’s _Arya_ who is resting her head on his shoulder as she convulses around him, it’s _Arya_ who is making these sounds that go straight to his cock. 

_Arya, Arya, Arya_

He doesn’t think he’ll last very long like this, so he tries to focus on her pleasure, draw on his last reserves to give her the release that she is so desperately searching for. 

The sounds she makes are his guiding light, telling him where to kiss her – lips pulled around a dusty pink nipple; how to touch her – thumb gently rubbing at her heated flesh; how to move with her – hips angling up to meet her as she bears down on him in a way that makes his hands dig into her flesh.

He doesn’t want to mar her beautiful skin any more than it already is but she bucks against him the second his fingers press into her and he does it again. She leans back, and the dazed look in her eye is enough to do him in. 

His expression must reveal his inner struggle, because next thing he knows, Arya is smiling at him. 

An honest to Gods, brilliant smile with just that teasing edge to it. His resolve finally snaps like a brittle tree branch underfoot. 

He uses his strength and size against her, switching their positions and then he’s swarming her, and she’s lifting her legs, and pushing against him and then he’s tumbling…

His only solace is that Arya is falling with him. 

xxx 

Something is wrong. 

He can feel the tension mounting from Arya’s side of the bed. 

The space between them is cold, yet her presence is unmistakable – formidable, overwhelming, consuming all his senses. 

He feigned sleep almost as soon as he slid off of her, afraid he would scare her off if he wrapped his arms around her like he’d wanted to. 

And Gendry was perfectly fine feigning sleep until the battle horn sounded, because at least he’d be near her, reassured that she is safe and within his reach – for however long the undead spared them. 

That is until he realized in his half-dream like state that Arya had grown progressively tense. 

It isn’t like the Arya he knew, who could not stay still to safe her hide. No, this Arya lies frozen as stone, seemingly without much effort. 

While he does not presume to know this version of her, Gendry trusts his gut, and his gut tells him something is amiss. 

His gut also tells him that asking her outright will only lead to rejection, and quite possibly her disappearance from his bed. 

And well, he quite likes having her near. 

If he moves his pinky just an inch, he would be touching her bare thigh, and something about that excites him in a way that the three other times never did.

It also turns him foolish and possessive. 

But mostly foolish.

“Can I ask you something?” 

If he startles her, she shows no sign. 

“As long as you’re not expecting an answer.” 

He smirks, somewhat relieved by her biting remark. Means some of the old Arya is still in there somewhere. 

“You say you’ve seen death.”

She doesn’t say anything, so he continues.

“And you say he has many faces?” 

Arya shifts, exposing more skin, but still nothing. 

“How many faces do you reckon he has?”

Perhaps it’s his failure to conceal his amusement or perhaps the words alone unsettle her but she turns around so quickly, he is ill prepared for the intense gray gaze that is suddenly upon him. 

His mouth runs dry at the image she paints. Dark hair, pale pink lips, translucent skin untouched by the dirt and grime of the forge. 

And yet, what excites him more is the spark in her eye, that little ember of fire that he’s managed to coax from her. 

“Only you would be stupid enough to joke about death.” Arya scoffs but he detects the barest hint of a smile and it’s enough for him.

He relaxes and slides his arm behind his head – primarily to keep from touching her but also because if this is the last night he has in this lifetime, he intends to be as comfortable as possible. 

“If death is so imminent, I might as well have a few laughs at his dispense.” 

He means for it to be in jest, but when he ventures a glance at her, Arya is looking at him with a haunted wisdom of someone who has lived a thousand lives and seen a thousand horrors. 

His mouth is dry once more but for a different reason altogether. 

“Death is not a he.”

She says it so factually; he has a hard time disbelieving her.

“Death is no one and everyone.”

He intends to ask her what she means by that, but she shifts towards him, and suddenly he is lifting his arm from underneath his head and wrapping it around her shoulders. 

Arya doesn’t move closer, which gives them an awkward angle, but as long as he feels the warm skin of her back and tickle of her hair on his arm, Gendry will not object.

It does make him a smidgen braver, however. 

“Is death here now, with us?” 

He shuts his eyes again, as if he can chase away the chill his question sends through him. 

Her immediate “no” gives him enough assurance that she will be there when he wakes up again. 

xxx

The horn of the first warning rouses him some time later.

He expects Arya to be half dressed by now, but she’s still curled into his side. He watches motionlessly as she eventually rises from the bed, and dresses with fluid, contained movements.

The stitches on her scars glint in the dim lighting but she makes no move to conceal herself and for that, Gendry is grateful. 

If this is the last time he sees her, he wants the image of her burned in his mind to be exactly this. 

Arya as she is now versus the child he left behind. 

“You should probably get dressed. Don’t want your cock freezing off out there.”

“You’re awful worried about my cock, milady.” 

He can’t help it. This is too familiar to him, too comforting and he’d be a fool not to take all the comfort he can get right now. 

“It has its uses.” 

They lock eyes, and the shared smile does something to him, but so does the desire written all over her face. 

She wants him and she’s not hiding it. 

_Good,_ he thinks, as he rises. 

He needs her to remember this while she fights death out there. He needs her to know that whatever terrors she has suffered, whatever sins she has committed, there is still salvation out there. 

Her day of reckoning is not today. He needs her to remember to fight, not simply to survive, but to _live_. 

The depth of his own conviction is startling, and if he had time to spare, he would dwell on his motives, but he does not.

As soon as they’re both dressed, he infringes on her space in a way he hasn’t at all tonight.

She has made the first move in everything, and he let her because it was what she needed. 

Now she needs to give him this. 

He draws her by the elbow and Arya comes willingly, looking up to meet his gaze without resistance.

There’s a flush on her cheeks that wasn’t there before and a glossiness in her eyes that he immediately recognizes. 

She looks at him not as Arya of the present or past or anything in between but Arya as a woman who is grown and who has been thoroughly _loved_...by him. 

It seizes his heart in an unexpected way. This could have gone so differently for them. In another version of their story, he never would have seen her again, let along made love to her. But he has, and he did and he’s going to hold onto it for as long as he bloody can. 

“Promise me,” he says, with more force than he intended. Arya doesn’t flinch, not even to pull away, “promise me you will come find me when this is all over.” 

There is a long pause, where he cannot read her expression at all. She looks frozen again, and silent, so very silent that Gendry starts to pick up on sounds of commotion all around them. 

Winterfell is waking up – readying itself for battle. 

In the distance, Gendry can hear the faint synchronized march of the Unsullied army interspersed with the hooves’ beats of the Dokthraki horses.

And yet, Arya stands seemingly untouched by it all. Her stormy gaze is the only indication that her mind is churning, that she’s weighing out her options. 

This is the farthest departure from the girl he knew before, who was impulsive, and hot headed, and eager to jump into the fight head first. 

This new skills of hers, this patience, might save her yet. 

And perhaps his bullheadedness will save him, because just as he grows impatient, Arya speaks. 

“I’ll try to come back here.”

The forge. 

Gendry looks around, thinking what neither of them will say, that come sunrise, there may be nothing but rubble left where they stand. 

But it’s the sentiment that counts, the promise wedged underneath, and he nods his agreement. 

He wants to kiss her but this time, she is too quick for him. By the time, he moves a fraction, she is already by the door.

He prays that he’ll see the smile she throws over her shoulder again. 

xxx


End file.
